.

.

..

.

You are a blind
man, holding a
blunt pencil.
Thinking he is
writing words
when in fact
all that is wrote is smudges on paper..

I just spent an hour looking through all my dad's old things. In the chest that my mum keeps at the foot of her bed (she wants to keep him, or at least, the memory of him, close) in that chest, there is a little book, filled with messages to him from people I've never met nor heard of. From cover to cover there are messages of mourning, love, grief, all for a man taken from the world too soon. And its not fair that these strangers knew him and I didn't. And its not fair that now heaven has him and I don't.

And I'll cut my wrists
Straight down to the bone
And carve flowers
Into the body
You've wilted.

I've yet to discover what my path is.
I've yet to understand my emotions my thoughts my reasoning behind my reactions.
I am unsure why elders say i should act my age, I do not think one can act a certain age, I think my maturity should not be  associated with my age.
I am aware of the world, at times to aware  for my own good, it scares me where this world can wonder to which part of the forest will societies majority take the rest of us who cant escape.
I am yet to finish these thoughts i find there is no time to but i know it will be done soon.

If God let nature pick out its colors
I'm sure the sky would still choose blue
And the deepest depths of the ocean
Would want to stay that color too

If the mountains took to long to decide
Their peaks would turn a snowy white
And the stars in all of their glory
Would still relish the black of the night

The green, green grass of the valleys
Would not want it any other way
Just like the yellow of the morning sun
On any given day

And the leaves on the trees in the cool fall breeze
Would be any color that they like
At any given moment in time
Is when they would decide

If God let nature choose its own colors
I'm sure they would all stay the same
Because God knew what he was doing
When he created it on that special day